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The   Roycroft   Quarterly 


A  SOUVENIR  AMD  A  MED  LE  Y : 

sl 


»ay  '96.       PRICE  25*CENTS.          No.  i. 


MAY  '96. 


NUMBER  ONE. 


ROYCROFT 
UARTERLY:  *& 
iing  a  Goodly  Col- 
llection  of  Literary  *& 
(^Curiosities  obtained 
_______  Sources  not  easi 
ly  accessible  to  the  average  Book- 
Lover*  Offered  to  the  Discerning 
every  three  months  for  25  Cents  a 
number  or  One  Dollar  a  year, 

ROYCROFT  PRINTING  SHOP, 

East  Aurora, 
N.  Y. 


Entered  at  the  'Postqffice  at  East  Aurora,  N.  Y.,  as  Second  Class 
Mail  Matter, 


ASOUVEMR 

AND 

A  MEDLEY: 

SEVEN  POEMS  AND 

A  SKETCH 

BY 

STEPHEN  CRANE, 

WITH  DIVERS 

AND 

SUNDRY 

COMMUNICATIONS 

FROM 

CERTAIN  EMINENT 

WITS. 


DONE  INTO  PRINT 

AT 

THE  ROYCROFT  PRINTING  SHOP, 

WHICHISIN  EAST  AURORA,  N.  Y. 

EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED  AND  NINETY-SIX. 


I  saw  a  man  pursuing  the  horizon; 
Round  and  round  they  sped. 
I  was  disturbed  at  this  ; 
I  accosted  the  man. 
"  It  is  futile"  I  said, 
"  You  can  never  — " 

"  You  lie,"  he  cried, 
And  ran  on. 

—The  Black  Riders. 


J896 
y 
The  Roycroft  Printing  Shop. 


CONTENTS. 


I.  Foreword. 

II.  Glints   of    Wit  and   Wisdom :     Being   replies 

from  sundry  Great  Men  who  missed  a  good 
Thing. 

III.  Some  Historical  documents  by  W.  Irving  Way, 

Philip  Hale  and  Livy  S.  Richard. 

IV.  As  to  the  Man.  E.  H. 
A  preachment  by  an  admiring  friend. 

V.  Seven  Poems  by  STEPHEN  CRANE. 

I. — The  Chatter  of  a  Death  Demon. 

2. — A  Lantern  Song. 

3. —A  Slant  of  Sun  on  Dull  Brown  Walls. 

4. — I  have  heard  the  Sunset  Song  of  the  Birches. 

5.— What  Says  the  Sea? 

6. — To  the  Maiden  the  Sea  was  Blue  Meadow. 

7.— Fast  Rode  the  Knight. 

VI.  A  Great  Mistake.  Stephen  Crane. 

Recording  the  venial  sin  of  a  mortal  under  sore  tempta 
tion. 

VII.  A  Prologue.  .Stephen  Crane. 


FOREWORD. 

On  Thursday  evening,  Dec.  19,  1895,  The  Society 
of  the  Philistines  gave  a  Dinner  in  honor  of  Mr. 
Stephen  Crane.  It  was  a  large  time,  and  much  good 
copy  was  passed  off  into  space  that  otherwise  might 
have  been  used  to  enrich  publishers. 

At  that  time  Mr.  Crane's  Red  Badge  of  Courage 
was  selling  slowly  in  its  second  thousand.  After 
three  short  months  had  slipped  past,  The  Red  Badge 
of  Courage  was  outselling,  both  in  England  and  the 
United  States,  any  other  book  written  by  an  Ameri 
can.  It  would  be  presumptious  to  claim  that  a  sin 
gle  Square  Meal  brought  such  fame  and  fortune  to  a 
modest,  blonde  youth,  wonderful  heretofore  only  as 
a  Shortstop ;  for  it  would  leave  the  claimant  the  em 
barrassing  task  of  proving  the  rate  of  sale  that  The 
Red  Badge  would  have  met  with  had  not  Mr.  Crane 
been  adopted  by  the  Philistine  Hosts  and  duly  dined. 

But  the  fact  remains  that  the  whirligig  of  time  has 
brought  a  recognition  of  Mr.  Crane's  genius ;  and  it 
has  also  brought  a  demand  on  the  East  Aurora  col 
ony  of  Philistines  for  a  certain  little  Souvenir  of  the 
Dinner  that  was  issued  at  the  time,  and  which  has 
been  a  deluge.  To  meet  this  demand  we  have 
printed  this  booklet,  adding  to  the  original  text  cer 
tain  matter  that  may  interest  the  future  historian  of 
American  Letters. 


FATE  FROWNED  UPON  THEM  AND 
THEY  COULD  NOT  COME. 

— DRYDEN. 

Charles  Dudley  Warner. 

The  Crane  Dinner,  I  hope,  will  encourage  and 
strengthen  the  inner  man  without  enlarging  unduly 
that  portion  where  our  imagination  is  supposed  to 
dwell. 

Maurice  Thompson. 

It  would  give  me  great  pleasure  to  sit  over  against 
Stephen  Crane  for  an  eating  bout .  Lately  he  made 
the  gooseflesh  wiggle  on  me — he  is  a  fiendish  war 
rior.  Eat,  drink  and  be  merry !  for  tomorrow  the 
critics  will  be  abroad. 

J.  C.  Hopper, 

of  the  U.  S.  Treasury. 

Mr.  Crane  certainly  wears  the  Red  Badge  of 
Courage  if  he  can  face  the  Philistines  in  such  an 
encounter  as  this. 


Irving  Bacheller. 

My  regards  to  my  good  friend  Crane.  God  save 
his  appetite  for  many  another  dinner. 

Arthur  Lucas, 

of  the  Albany  Express. 

I  have  a  profound  admiration  for  a  man  who, 
casting  to  the  winds  rhyme,  reason  and  metre,  can 
still  write  poetry. 

Chester  S.  Lord, 

of  the  Sun. 

In  spirit  I  join  you  in  doing  honor  to  Mr.  Crane, 
who  is  the  mildest  mannered  man  who  ever  cut  a 
throat  or  scuttled  ship  (on  paper) . 

Ripley  Hitchcock. 

I  am  glad  to  know  that  our  prophets  when  they 
prove  themselves  such  are  not  without  honor  in  their 
own  country. 

Walter  Storrs  Bigelow, 

of  the  Boston  Commonwealth. 
This  is  the  first  time  I  was  ever  asked  in  so  fitting 
manner  to  dine  with  a  great  poet,  and  I  am  glad  you 
have  picked  out  so  good  an  one  as  Crane. 

Louise  Imogen  Guiney. 

Miss  Guiney  is 

"  Eyeless  in  Gaza,  at  the  Mill  with  slaves, 
Herself  in  bonds,  (NOT)  under  Philistian  yoke," 

and  therefore  is  only  sorry,  and  grateful,  and  absent, 
and  sensible  of  a  good  thing  and  much  good  com 
pany  missed. 

8 


Walter  Blackburn  Harte. 

I  wish  Mr.  Crane  all  good  fortune  in  literature  and 
life,  and  I  trust  the  joy  of  the  Philistines  may  be 
complete. 

The  heroism  of  humanity  has  passed  forever  into 
the  hearts  of  those  who  starve  and  suffer  and  live  for 
Literature.  There  is  no  profession  holds  so  many 
true  heroes — and  so  many  damned  rascals — as  Lit 
erature  ;  but  Crane,  who  writes  with  the  inspiration 
of  the  smell  of  powder,  is,  let  us  hope,  first  of  all  a 
Man — and  afterwards  a  Writer. 

John  Langdon  Heaton, 

of  the  Recorder. 

Aren't  the  Philistines,  individually  and  collectively, 
peaches  ? 

Ernest  E.  Russell, 

of  Public  Opinion. 

It  will  be  a  goodly  company — and  if  you  all  slide 
under  the  table,  I  swear  to  you  it  will  be  a  goodly 
company. 

Amy  Leslie, 

of  the  Chicago  News. 

My  most  gentle  thoughts  are  tinged  with  envy  of 
you  who  are  so  lucky  as  to  meet  Stephen  Crane. 

Thomas  W.  Durston, 

of  Syracuse. 

In  December  a  bookseller  must  work  days  and 
nights  and  Sundays.  If  you  will  give  a  picnic  for 
Crane  next  summer,  I'll  come  and  stay  a  week. 


E.  E.  Winship, 

of  the  Journal  of  Education. 

I  dote  on  Stephen  Crane,  although  I  don't  under 
stand  his  lines  a  bit. 

Edward  W.  Bok. 

I  sincerely  wish  I  could  come,  though  even  if  I 
could  I  probably  would  not  be  able  to  find  East 
Aurora.  One  thing  is  certain,  you  are  making  famous 
a  hitherto  obscure  town,  and  that  is  something  in 
these  days. 

Charles  F.  Lummis. 

I  am  sorry  that  I  cannot  assist  at  the  Hanging  of 
the  Crane,  but  I  trust  Justice  may  be  done. 

W.  W.  Campbell. 

I  hope  the  occasion  may  not  cause  too  many  of 
you  to  "  chase  the  horizon  "  Friday  morning. 

Richard  Harding  Davis. 

I  will  wager  the  dinner  will  be  better  than  those 
you  and  I  got  in  the  restaurant  at  Creede,  but  I  can't 
come.  My  respects  to  Mr.  Crane. 

Bliss  Carman. 

It  would  do  me  great  pleasure  to  sit  at  feast  with 
Mr.  Crane  and  the  bold  and  worthy  Philistines,  but 
I  cannot  find  East  Aurora  in  my  Railroad  Guide. 

10 


Kamlin  Garland. 

I  take  a  very  special  interest  in  Mr.  Crane,  as  I 
was  one  of  the  very  first  to  know  about  Maggie  and 
the  Red  Badge. 

Mr.  Cudahy. 

Being  engaged  in  writing  a  sequel  to  "  The  Pawns 
of  Chance,"  I  much  regret  that  I  cannot  meet  Mr. 
Crane  at  dinner.  As  soon  as  the  Packing  Season  is 
over  I  hope  to  read  "The  Blue  Badge  of  Bravery." 

W.  D.  Howells. 

I  am  very  glad  to  know  that  my  prophecies  are  be 
ing  realized  and  that  Mr?  Crane  is  receiving  recogni 
tion  at  a  time  in  life  when  he  can  most  enjoy  it. 

Robert  W.  Criswell, 

of  the  Morning  Advertiser. 

1  do  not  understand  Crane's  poetry,  nor  do  I  un 
derstand  the  inscription  on  the  monolith  in  Central 
Park,  but  I  learn  from  good  authority  that  it  conveys 
valuable  information  expressed  in  chaste  and  beauti 
ful  language. 

(Rev.)  Samuel  J.  Barrows, 

of  the  Christian  Register. 

Although  I  might  meet  one  Goliath,  armed  with 
smooth  stones  that  I  might  make  a  hit,  I  dare  not 
face  a  whole  table  of  giants.  Beside,  the  Railroads 
declare  there  is  an  Interstate  Commerce  Law,  and 
that  it  is  wicked  to  give  passes. 


ii 


Hayden  Carruth. 

I  saw  a  Man  reading  an  invitation. 

Anon  he  chortled  like  a  bull-frog — 

Like  a  billy-be-dasted  bull-frog. 

It  was  a  dinner  invitation, 

Which  accounted  for  the  chortle. 

"They  will  have  Grub,"  quoth  the 

Man. 

"  Better  yet,  Grape  Juice,  I  will  go  !  " 

The  red  chortle  died  on  his  white  lips. 

His  ashy  hand  shot  into  his  black 

Pocket. 

A  gray  wail  burst  from  his  parched, 

Brown  throat 

Like  the  scarlet  yowl  of  a  yellow 

Tom  Cat — 

The  Man  didn't  have  the  price  ! 

Which  accounted  for  the  wail. 

I  left  him  cursing  the  Railroad 

Company  with  great,  jagged, 

Crimson  curses. 

E.  C.  Stedman. 

Judging  from  the  vivid  way  in  which  he  writes  of 
war,  Stephen  Crane  must  have  in  a  former  incarnation 
been  with  the  Philistines  and  fought  for  home  and 
native  land  against  those  marauding  Children  of  the 
Plain. 

Ambrose  Bierce. 

Were  it  not  for  the  miles  which  separate  us,  I  would 
be  with  you  and  lick  a  plate  so  clean  that  it  would 
not  have  to  be  washed  for  a  month. 

12 


S.  S.  McClure,  Limited. 

I  admire  Mr.  Crane's  work,  and  I  admire  the  man. 
I  also  admire  the  valiant  Philistines — from  a  safe 
distance. 

John  J.  Rooney. 

I  say  advisedly  that  what  Goethe  did  for  Wiemar, 
Shakespeare  for  Stratford,  Whitman  for  Camden  and 
Emerson  for  Concord,  the  PHILISTINE  is  doing  for 
East  Aurora.  From  the  sleepy,  moss-grown  village, 
it  shines  forth  in  the  bright  borealis  rays  reflected 
from  the  burnished  armor  of  its  fierce-fighting  Black 
Riders,  and  the  civilized  world  looks  on  and  wonders 
what  next ! 

Charles  S.  Savage, 

of  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons. 

Can't  come,  and  it  is  fortunate  for  the  Philistines 
that  this  is  so,  for  should  I  come,  I'd  bring  my 
Weapon  and  slay  you  all. 

E.  St.  Elmo  Lewis, 
of  Footlights. 

To  Stephen  Crane  we  of  the  modern  era  owe 
much. 

T.  W.  Higginson. 

If  it  is  really  true  that  Crane  fought  through  the 
entire  Revolutionary  War,  taking  a  hand  too  in  the 
Concord  Fight,  I  can  understand  why  his  descrip 
tions  always  ring  true. 

13 


Daniel  Appleton. 

As  one  of  the  first  to  read  and  appreciate  the  Red 
Badge,  I  would  like  to  be  with  you  in  honoring  Mr. 
Crane. 

L.  H.  Bickford, 

of  the  Denver  Times. 

I  should  like  to  be  present,  if  only  for  the  sake  of 
Art — for  I  believe  in  each  one  of  the  Philistines  do 
ing  his  best  to  further  that  Art  which  receives  exqui 
site  handling  by  Mr.  Crane. 

Adeline  Knapp, 

of  the  Examiner. 

Say  to  Mr.  Crane  for  me  that  the  author  of  the 
Red  Badge  is  Great  People,  and  that,  did  train  con 
nections  permit  my  reaching  San  Francisco  before 
morning,  more  than  my  Astral  Self  were  doing  him 
honor  this  night. 

Edward  Hofer, 

of  the  Salem  (Oregon)  Journal. 

Accept  the  greeting  of  one  in  the  far  West  who 
esteems  it  a  great  dignity  to  be  called  one  of  the 
brotherhood  of  Philistia. 

George  F.  Warren, 

of  the  Democrat  and  Chronicle. 
As  a  poet  Stephen  Crane  is  a  cracker-jack. 

Geoffrey  Charlton  Adams. 

We  need  such  men  as  Crane  in  Gath  and  Askelon. 

14 


Col.  John  Lr.  Burleigh. 

It  grieves  me  greatly  to  think  I  cannot  be  with 
you  at  the  Feed.  I  was  with  Crane  at  Antietam  and 
saw  him  rush  forward,  sieze  two  of  the  enemy  and 
bump  their  heads  together  in  a  way  that  must  have 
made  them  see  constellations.  When  a  Rebel  Gen 
eral  remonstrated  with  him,  Steve,  in  a  red  fury,  gave 
him  a  kick  like  a  purple  cow  when  all  at  once — but 
the  story  is  too  long  to  tell  now. 


AS  TO  THE  MAN. 

^TEPHEN  CRANE  possesses  genius. 
[Just  what  genius  is  the  world  has  not 
jdetermined,  for,  like  the  ulster,  the 

[word  covers  a  multitude  of  sins.     But 

if  pushed  for  a  definition,  I  would  say  that  genius  is 
only  a  woman's  intuition  carried  one  step  further. 
It  is  essentially  feminine  in  its  attributes,  and  the 
men  of  genius  (as  opposed  to  men  of  talent)  have 
always  been  men  with  marked  feminine  qualities. 
The  genius  knows  because  he  knows,  and  if  you 
should  ask  the  genius  whence  comes  this  power,  he 
would  answer  you  (if  he  knew)  in  the  words  of 
Cassius  :  "  My  mother  gave  it  me." 

Every  genius  has  had  a  splendid  mother.  Had  I 
space,  I  could  name  you  a  dozen  great  men — dead 
and  gone — who  were  ushered  into  this  earth-life  un 
der  about  the  following  conditions  :  A  finely-organ 
ized,  receptive,  aspiring  woman  is  thrown  by  fate 
into  an  unkind  environment.  She  thirsts  for  knowl- 

16 


edge,  for  sweet  music,  for  beauty,  for  sympathy,  for 
attainment.  She  has  a  heart-hunger  that  none  about 
her  comprehend ;  she  strives  for  better  things  but 
those  nearest  her  do  not  understand.  She  prays  to 
God,  but  the  heavens  are  but  brass.  When  in  this 
peculiar  mental  condition  a  child  is  born  to  her. 
This  child  is  heir  to  all  of  his  mother's  spiritual  de 
sires,  but  he  develops  a  man's  strength  and  breaks 
the  fetters  that  held  her  fast.  He  surmounts  obsta 
cles  that  she  could  never  overcome.  The  woman's 
prayer  was  answered.  God  listened  to  her  after  all. 
But,  like  Columbus,  who  gave  the  world  a  continent, 
she  dies  in  ignorance  of  what  she  has  achieved. 

Earth's  buffets  are  usually  too  severe  for  her ;  she 
cannot  endure  its  contumely ;  she  goes  to  her  long 
rest,  soothed  only  by  the  thought  that  she  did  her 
work  as  best  she  could.  In  summer,  wild  flowers 
nod  in  the  breeze  above  her  forgotten  grave,  and  in 
winter,  the  untracked  snow  covers  with  bridal  white 
the  spot  where  she  sleeps.  But  far  away  in  the  gay 
courts  of  great  cities  the  walls  echo  the  praises  of 
her  son,  and  men  say,  Behold,  a  Genius  ! 

She  died  that  others  might  live.  Her  prayer  was 
answered,  as  every  sincere  prayer  is :  for  every  desire 
of  the  heart  has  somewhere  its  gratification.  But 
Nature  cares  not  for  the  individual — her  thought  is 
only  for  the  race.  Do  you  know  the  history  of 
Nancy  Hanks?  She  is  the  universal  type  of  women 
who  give  the  world  its  men  of  genius. 

17 


When  in. 1 89 1  Stephen  Crane,  wrote.  Maggie,  a 
girl  of  the  Streets,  Mr.  Ho  wells  read  .the  story, 
and  after  seeing  its  author  said,  "This  man  has 
sprung  into  life  Mi-armed.,''  And  that  expression  of 
Mr.  HoweUs;  fully  covers  the  case.  I  can  imagine 
no  icondition  of  life  that  might .  entangle  a  man  or 
woman  within  its  meshes  that. Stephen  Crane  could 
not  fully  comprehend. and  appreciate.  Men  are  only 
great  as  they  possess  sympathy.-  Crane  knows  the 
human  .heart  through  and  through,  and  he  sympa 
thizes  with  its  every  pulsation.  From  the  beggar's 
child  searching  in  ash  barrels  .for  treasure,  to  the 
statesman  playing  at  diplomacy  with  his  chief 
thought  on  next  fall's  election,  Stephen  Crane  knows 
the  inmost  soul  of  each  and  all.  Whether  he  is  able 
to  translate  it  to  you  or  not  is  quite  another  question ; 
but  in  the  forty  or  more  short  stories  and  sketches 
he  has  written  I  fail  to  find  a  single  false  note.  He 
neither  exaggerates  nor  comes  tardy  off. 

The  psychologists  tell  us  that  a  man  cannot  fully 
comprehend  a  condition  that  he  has  never  .experi 
enced.  But  theosophy  explains  the  transcendent 
wisdom  of  genius  by  saying  that  in  former  incarna 
tions  the  man  passed  through  these  experiences. 
Emerson  says  :  "  We  are  bathed  in  an  ocean  of  in 
telligence,  and  under  right  conditions  the  soul  knows 
all  things."  These  things  may  be  true,  but  the  se 
cret  of  Crane's  masterly  delineation  is  that  he  is 
able  to  project  himself  into  the  condition  of  others. 
18 


He  does  not  describe  men  and  women — he  is  that 
man.  He  loses  his  identity,  forgets  self,  abandons 
his  own  consciousness,  and  is  for  the  moment  the  in 
dividual  who  speaks.  And  whether  this  individual  is 
man,  woman  or  child,  makes  no  difference.  Sex, 
age,  condition,  weigh  not  in  the  scale. 

During  the  latter  half  of  the  year  1895  no  writing 
man  in  America  was  so  thoroughly  hooted  and  so 
well  abused  as  Stephen  Crane. ,  I  have  a  scrap-book 
o'f  newspaper  clippings  that  is  a  symposium  of  Bil 
lingsgate  mud-balls,  with  Crane  for  the  target. 
Turning  the  leaves  of  this  scrap-book  I  find  used  in 
reference  to  a  plain  little  book  called  The  Black  Ri 
ders,  these  words :  Idiocy,  drivel,  bombast,  rot, 
nonsense,  puerility,  untruth,  garbage,  hamfat,  funny, 
absurd,  childish,  drunken,  besotted,  obscure,  opium- 
laden,  blasphemous,  indecent,  fustian,  rant,  bassoon- 
poetry,  swell-head  stuff,  bluster,  balderdash,  windy, 
turgid,  stupid,  pompous,  gasconade,  gas-house  bal 
lads,  etc.,  etc; 

There  are  also  in  this  scrap-book  upward  of  a 
hundred  parodies  on  the  poems.  Some  of  these  are 
rather  clever,  but  they  differ  from  Crane's  work  in 
this,  that  there  is  not  a  molecule  of  thought  in  one 
of  them,  while  there  is  a  great  moral  truth  taught  in 
each  of  Crane's  poems.  It's  so  easy  to  write  a  par 
ody;  a  parody  is  a  calico  cat  stuffed  with  cotton;  it 
pleases  the  little  boys  who  wear  dresses.  Usually, 
people — even  sensible  people — will  not  take  time  to 

19 


find  it.  But  one  might  as  well  accuse  JEsop  of  idiocy 
when  he  has  a  fox  talk  to  a  goose.  Of  course,  we 
could  truthfully  swear  that  no  fox  ever  carried  on  a 
conversation  with  a  goose  since  the  world  began. 
But  to  assume  that  ^sop  was  therefore  a  fool  would 
be  proof  that  the  man  who  made  the  assumption 
was  a  fool  and  not  ^Esop. 

The  "  Lines"  in  The  Black  Riders  seem  to  me 
very  wonderful :  charged  with  meaning  like  a  storage 
battery.  But  there  is  a  fine  defy  in  the  flavour  that 
warns  the  reader  not  to  take  too  much  or  it  may 
strike  in.  Who  wants  a  meal  of  horseradish?  When 
I  hear  intelligent  people  jeer  at  The  Black  Riders 
(and  intelligent  people  do  jeer  at  The  Black  Riders} 
I  think  of  those  Chicago  hand-me-out  restaurants 
where  men  woo  dyspepsia,  (and  win  the  termagent) 
fighting  like  crimson  devils  for  pie,  and  gulp  things 
red  hot  because  Time  and  the  Stock  Exchange  wait 
for  no  man ;  or  perhaps  of  Paul  Bourget  who  swal 
lowed  three  fingers  of  Worcestershire  Sauce  on  a 
Pullman  Dining  Car  and  then  made  a  memorandum 
in  his  note  book  that  American  wines  are  very  bad. 

Any  man  who  has  a  tuppence  worth  of  philosophy 
in  his  clay,  and  a  little  of  God's  leisure  at  his  dispo 
sal  that  will  allow  him  to  take  his  mental  aliment  with 
pulse  at  normal,  will  find  a  good  honest  nugget  of 
wisdom  in  every  sentence  of  Copeland  &  Day's  unique 
little  work.  Yet  I  admit  that  in  a  certain  mood  the 
brevity  of  expression  is  rather  exasperating,  and  the 

20 


independence  of  spirit  which  shows  that  the  author 
can  do  without  you  is  the  quip  modest,  if  not  the 
reproof  valiant,  that  is  not  always  pleasant.  But 
granting  that  there  are  some  things  in  The  Black 
Riders  that  I  do  not  especially  like,  I  yet  have  no 
quarrel  with  the  book.  I  accept  it  and  give  thanks. 

But  granting  for  argument's  sake  that  The  Black 
Riders  is  "  rot,"  it  then  must  be  admitted  that  it  was 
a  great  stroke  of  worldly  wisdom.  For  Stephen 
Crane  now  has  the  ear  of  the  world.  Publishers  be 
siege  him  with  checks  in  advance,  and  the  manuscript 
of  a  story  he  has  just  completed  has  been  bid  on  by 
four  different  firms,  with  special  offers  for  the  Eng 
lish  copyright.  Tradition  has  it  that  the  sixty-eight 
short  poems  in  The  Black  Riders  were  all  written  in 
the  space  of  two  days  and  a  night — in  a  time  of  ter 
rible  depression.  The  work  was  then  handed  to  a 
dear  friend.  This  friend  thought  he  saw  the  deep 
burning  thought  of  a  prophet  in  the  lines,  and  he 
conceived  the  plan  of  publishing  them.  A  thousand 
copies  were  printed  and  sold  inside  of  six  months. 
If  you  want  a  first  edition  of  The  Black  Riders  now, 
it  will  cost  you  five  dollars,  and  if  you  can  pick  up  a 
Maggie  of  the  Streets  for  twice  that,  you'd  better  do 
it — and  do  it  quick. 

Stephen  Crane  attended  Lafayette  College  for  a 
time  in  his  nineteenth  year.  The  teachers  there 
write  me  that  they  remember  him  only  as  "  a  yellow, 
tow-haired  youth,  who  would  rather  fight  than  study." 

21 


They  advised  him  to  "take  a  change,"  so  he  went  to 
Syracuse  University — his  guardian  being  anxious  he 
should  be  "educated."  His  fame  at  Syracuse  rests 
on  the  fact  that  he  was  the  best  short-stop  ever  on 
the  University  baseball  team.  He  soon  became  cap 
tain,  this  on  account  of  his  ability  to  hold  his  own 
when  it  came  to  an  issue  with  certain  "scrapping" 
antagonists. 

Once  when  he  was  called  upon  to  recite  in  the 
psychology  class,  he  argued  a  point  with  the  teacher. 
The  Professor  sought  to  silence  him  by  an  appeal  to 
the  Bible  :  "  Tut,  tut — what  does  St.  Paul  say,  Mr. 
Crane,  what  does  St.  Paul  say?"  testily  asked  the 
old  Professor. 

"  I  know  what  St.  Paul  says,"  was  the  answer, 
"but  I  disagree  with  St.  Paul." 

Of  course  no  Methodist  college  wants  a  student 
like  that;  and  young  Crane  wandered  down  to  New 
York  and  got  a  job  reporting  on  the  Herald. 

Since  then  he  has  worked  on  the  editorial  staff  of 
various  papers.  He  is  now,  however/  devoting  his 
whole  time  to  letters,  living  at  Hartwood,  Sullivan 
County,  N.  Y.  •  Hartwood  has  a  store,  a  blacksmith 
shop  and  a  tavern.  When  the  train  comes  in  all  of 
the  citizens  go  down  to  the  station  to  see  'er  go 
through.  Should  you  ask  one  of  these  citizens  who 
Stephen 'Crane  is,  he  would  probably  answer  you  as 
he  did  me : 
•  -"  Mr. -Crane,  Mr.  Crane  !  you  mean  Steve  Crane ?  • 

2-2 


"Yes/? 

"Why,  he's^-he?s  Steve  Crane  an'  a  dern  good 
feller!"  ;.V  ,ii 

Mr.  Crane  is  now  in  his  twenty-fifth  year.  He  is 
a  little  under  the  average  height,  and  is  slender  and 
slight  in  build,  weighing  scarcely  one  hundred  and 
thirty  pounds.  He  is  a  decided  blonde :  his  eyes 
blue.  His  intellect  is  as  wide  awake  as  the  matin 
chimes,  and  his  generosity  is  as  ample  as  the  double 
chin  of  Col.  Ingersoll.  His  handsome*  boyish  face 
and  quiet,  half-shy,  modest  manner  make  him  a  gen 
eral  favorite  everywhere  with  women.  And  to  me,  it 
is  rather  curious  that  women  should  flock  around  and 
pet  this  sort  of  a  man,  who  can  read  their  inmost 
thoughts  just  as  that  Roentgen  invention  can  photo 
graph  things  inside  of  a  box,  when  a  big,  stupid  man 
with  a  red  face  and  a  black  mustache  they  are  very 
much  afraid  of. 

,  At  a  recent  banquet  given  by  the  Society  of  the 
Philistines,  in  honor  of  Mr.  Crane,  thirty-one  men 
sat  at  the  feast.  These  men  had  come  from  Chi 
cago,  New  York,  Boston,  and  elsewhere  to  attend  the 
dinner.  Several  lawyers,  one  eminent  physician,  and 
various  writers  were  there.  Crane  was  the  youngest 
individual  at  the  board,  but  he  showed  himself  the 
peer  of  any  man  present.  His  speech  was  earnest, 
dignified,  yet  modestly  expressed.  His  manner  is 
singularly  well  poised,  and  his  few  words  carry  con 
viction. 

23 


Still  he  can  laugh  and  joke,  and  no  man  has  a  bet 
ter  appreciation  of  humor.  He  loves  the  out-doors, 
and  in  riding  horseback  by  his  side  across  country  I 
have  admired  his  happy  abandon,  as  he  sits  secure, 
riding  with  loose  rein  and  long  stirrup  in  a  reckless 
rush. 

In  the  New  York  Times  for  January  26  is  a  two- 
column  letter  from  London,  by  that  distinguished 
critic,  Mr.  Harold  Frederic.  The  subject  of  the  en 
tire  article  is  Stephen  Crane.  Says  Mr.  Frederic : 

"  The  •'  Red  Badge  of  Courage '  appeared  a  couple 
of  months  ago,  unheralded  and  unnoticed,  in  a  series 
which,  under  the  distinctive  label  of  '  Pioneer,'  is 
popularly  supposed  to  present  fiction  more  or  less 
after  the  order  of  *  The  Green  Carnation,'  which  was 
also  of  that  lot.  The  first  one  who  mentioned  in 
my  hearing  that  this  '  Red  Badge '  was  well  worth 
reading  happened  to  be  a  person  whose  literary  ad 
mirations  serve  me  generally  as  warnings  what  to 
avoid,  and  I  remembered  the  title  languidly  from 
that  standpoint  of  self-protection.  A  little  later 
others  began  to  speak  of  it.  All  at  once,  every  book 
ish  person  had  it  at  his  tongue's  end.  It  was  clearly 
a  book  to  read,  and  I  read  it.  Even  as  I  did  so,  re 
views  burst  forth  in  a  dozen  different  quarters,  hail 
ing  it  as  extraordinary.  Some  were  naturally  more 
excited  and  voluble  than  others,  but  all  the  critics 
showed,  and  continue  to  show,  their  sense  of  being 
in  the  presence  of  something  not  like  other  things. 
24 


George  Wyndham,  M.  P.,  has  already  written  of  it 
in  The  New  Review  as  '  a  remarkable  book.'  Other 
magazine  editors  have  articles  about  it  in  preparation, 
and  it  is  evident  that  for  the  next  few  months  it  is  to 
be  more  talked  about  than  anything  else  in  current 
literature.  It  seems  almost  equally  certain  that  it 
will  be  kept  alive,  as  one  of  the  deathless  books 
which  must  be  read  by  everybody  who  desires  to  be, 
or  to  seem  a  connoisseur  of  modern  fiction. 

"  If  there  were  in  existence  any  books  of  a  similar 
character,  one  could  start  confidently  by  saying  it 
was  the  best  of  its  kind.  But  it  has  no  fellows.  It 
is  a  book  outside  of  all  classification.  So  unlike  any 
thing  else  is  it,  that  the  temptation  rises  to  deny  that 
it  is  a  book  at  all.  When  one  searches  for  compari 
sons,  they  can  only  be  found  by  culling  out  selected 
portions  from  the  trunks  of  masterpieces,  and  con 
sidering  these  detached  fragments,  one  by  one,  with 
reference  to  the  '  Red  Badge,'  which  is  itself  a  frag 
ment,  and  yet  is  complete.  Thus  one  lifts  the  best 
battle  pictures  from  Tolstoi's  great '  War  and  Peace,' 
from  Balzacs  '  Chouans,'  from  Hugo's  '  Les  Miser- 
ables,'  and  the  forest  fight  in  ''93,'  from  Prosper 
Merimee's  '  Assault  of  the  Redoubt,'  from  Zola's  'La 
Debacle  '  and  *  Attack  on  the  Mill '  (it  is  strange 
enough  that  equivalents  in  the  literature  of  our  own 
language  do  not  suggest  themselves),  and  studies 
them  side  by  side  with  this  tremendously  effective 
battle  painting  by  the  unknown  youngster.  Posi- 


tively  they  are  cold  and  ineffectual  beside  it.  The 
praise  may  sound  exaggerated,  but  really  it  is  inade 
quate.  These  renowned  battle  descriptions  of  the 
big  men  are  made  to  seem  all  wrong.  The  '  Red 
Badge  '  impels  the  feeling  that  the  actual  truth  about 
a  battle  has  never  been  guessed  before." 

There  is  a  class  of  reviewers  who  always  wind  up 
their  preachments  by  saying :  "  This  book  gives 
much  promise,  and  we  shall  look  anxiously  for  Mr. 
Scribbler's  next."  Let  us  deal  in  no  such  cant.  A 
man's  work  is  good  or  it  is  not.  As  for  his  "  next," 
nobody  can  tell  whether  it  will  be  good  or  not. 
There  is  a  whole  army  of  men  about  to  do  something 
great,  but  the  years  go  by  and  they  never  do  it. 
They  are  like  those  precocious  children  who  stand  on 
chairs  and  recite  "  pieces."  They  never  make  ora 
tors.  As  to  Crane's  "  future  work,"  let  us  keep 
silent.  But  if  he  never  produces  another  thing,  he 
has  done  enough  to  save  the  fag-end  of  the  century 
from  literary  disgrace ;  and  look  you,  friends,  that  is 
no  small  matter ! 

E.  H.  in  The  Lotos. 


26 


THE  CHATTER  OF  A  DEATH-DEMON  FROM  A  TREE- 
TOP. 

BLOOD— BLOOD  AND  TORN  GRASS- 
HAD  MARKED  THE  RISE  OF  HIS  AGONY— 
THIS  LONE  HUNTER, 
THE  GREY-GREEN  WOODS  IMPASSIVE 
HAD  WATCHED  THE  THRESHING  OF  HIS  LIMBS. 
A  CANOE  WITH  FLASHING  PADDLE, 
A  GIRL  WITH  SOFT,  SEARCHING  EYES, 
A  CALL:     "JOHN!" 

COME,  ARISE,  HUNTER! 
LIFT  YOUR  GREY  FACE ! 
CAN  YOU  NOT  HEAR? 

THE  CHATTER  OF  A  DEATH-DEMON  FROM  A  TREE- 
TOP. 


EACH  SMALL  GLEAM  WAS  A  VOICE 
—A  LANTERN  VOICE- 
IN  LITTLE  SONGS  OF  CARMINE,  VIOLET,  GREEN, 

GOLD. 

A  CHORUS  OF  COLORS  CAME  OVER  THE  WATER, 
THE  WONDROUS  LEAF-SHADOWS  NO  LONGER  WAV- 

ERED, 

NO  PINES  CROONED  ON  THE  HILLS, 
THE  BLUE  NIGHT  WAS  ELSEWHERE  A  SILENCE 
WHEN  THE  CHORUS  OF  COLORS  CAME  OVER  THE 

WATER, 

LITTLE  SONGS  OF  CARMINE,  VIOLET,  GREEN,  GOLD. 
SMALL  GLOWING  PEBBLES 
THROWN  ON  THE  DARK  PLANE  OF  EVENING 
SING  GOOD  BALLADS  OF  GOD 
AND  ETERNITY,  WITH  SOUL'S  REST. 
LITTLE  PRIESTS,  LITTLE  HOLY  FATHERS, 
NONE  CAN  DOUBT  THE  TRUTH  OF  YOUR  HYMNING 
WHEN  THE  MARVELOUS  CHORUS  COMES  OVER  THE 

WATER, 
SONGS  OF  CARMINE,  VIOLET,  GREEN,  GOLD. 


A  SLANT  OF  SUN  ON  PULL  BROWN  WALLS 
A  FORGOTTEN  SKY  OF  BASHFUL  BLUE. 
TOWARD  GOD  A  MIGHTY  HYMN 
A  SONG  OF  CLASHES  AND  CRIES, 
RUMBLING  WHEELS,  HOOF-BEATS,  BELLS, 
WELCOMES,    FAREWELLS,    LOVE-CALLS,    FINAL 

MOANS, 

VOICES  OF  JOY,  IDIOCY,  WARNING,  DESPAIR,, 
THE  UNKNOWN  APPEALS  OF  BRUTES, 
THE  CHANTING  OF  VIOLETS, 
THE  SCREAMS  OF  CUT  TREES, 

THE  SENSELESS  BABBLE  OF  HENS  AND  WISE  MEN— 
A  CLUTTERED  INCOHERENCY  THAT  SAYS  AT  THE 

STARS: 
«'O,  GOD  SAVE  US!" 


"I    HAVE    HEARD    THE    SUNSET    SONG    OF    THE 

BIRCHES 

"  A  WHITE  MELODY  IN  THE  SILENCE. 
"  I  HAVE  SEEN  A  QUARREL  OF  THE  PINES. 
"  AT  NIGHTFALL, 

"  THE  LITTLE  GRASSES  HAVE  RUSHED  BY  ME 
"  WITH  THE  WIND-MEN. 
"THESE    THINGS    HAVE    I    LIVED,"   QUOTH  THE 

MANIAC 

"  POSSESSING  ONLY  EYES  AND  EARS. 
"BUT,  YOU— 
"YOU  DON  GREEN  SPECTACLES  BEFORE  YOU  LOOK 

AT  ROSES." 


"  WHAT  SAYS  THE  SEA,  LITTLE  SHELL? 

"  WHAT  SAYS  THE  SEA? 

"  LONG  HAS  OUR  BROTHER  BEEN  SILENT  TO  US, 

"  KEPT  HIS  MESSAGE  FOR  THE  SHIPS, 

"AWKWARD  SHIPS,  STUPID  SHIPS." 

"THE  SEA  BIDS  YOU  MOURN,  OH,  PINES, 

"  SING  LOW  IN  THE  MOONLIGHT. 

"  HE  SENDS  TALE  OF  THE  LAND  OF  DOOM, 

"  OF  PLACE  WHERE  ENDLESS  FALLS 

"  A  RAIN  OF  WOMEN'S  TEARS. 

"  AND  MEN  IN  GREY  ROBES— 

"  MEN  IN  GREY  ROBES— 

"  CHANT  THE  UNKNOWN  PAIN." 

"  WHAT  SAYS  THE  SEA,  LITTLE  SHELL? 

«  WHAT  SAYS  THE  SEA? 

"  LONG  HAS  OUR  BROTHER  BEEN  SILENT  TO  US, 

"  KEPT  HIS  MESSAGE  FOR  THE  SHIPS, 

"  PUNY  SHIPS,  SILLY  SHIPS." 

"  THE  SEA  BIDS  YOU  TEACH,  OH,  PINES, 

"  SING  LOW  IN  THE  MOONLIGHT, 

"TEACH  THE  GOLD  OF  PATIENCE, 

"  CRY  GOSPEL  OF  GENTLE  HANDS, 

"  CRY  A  BROTHERHOOD  OF  HEARTS, 

"  THE  SEA  BIDS  YOU  TEACH,  OH,  PINES." 

"  AND  WHERE  IS  THE  REWARD,  LITTLE  SHELL? 

"  WHAT  SAYS  THE  SEA? 

"  LONG  HAS  OUR  BROTHER  BEEN  SILENT  TO  US, 

"  KEPT  HIS  MESSAGE  FOR  THE  SHIPS, 

"  PUNY  SHIPS,  SILLY  SHIPS." 

"NO  WORD  SAYS  THE  SEA,  OH,  PINES, 

"  NO  WORD  SAYS  THE  SEA. 

"  LONG  WILL  YOUR  BROTHER  BE  SILENT  TO  YOU, 

"  KEEP  HIS  MESSAGE  FOR  THE  SHIPS, 

«'  OH,  PUNY  PINES,  SILLY  PINES." 

31 


TO  THE  MAIDEN 

THE  SEA  WAS  BLUE  MEADOW 

ALIVE  WITH  LITTLE  FROTH-PEOPLE 

SINGING. 

TO  THE  SAILOR,  WRECKED, 

THE  SEA  WAS  DEAD  GREY  WALLS 

SUPERLATIVE  IN  VACANCY 

UPON  WHICH  NEVERTHELESS  AT  FATEFUL  TIME, 

WAS  WRITTEN 

THE  GRIM  HATRED  OF  NATURE. 

'U.M    1  »?»f'T 


aiV     ,'j   fcl    tVity.V 

<a  f»r.p/  17   -; 


r»    - .,,•-'  r 


FAST  RODE  THE  KNIGHT 

WITH  SPURS,  HOT  AND  REEKING 

EVER  WAVING  AN  EAGER  SWORD. 

"  TO  SAVE  MY  LADY !  " 

FAST  RODE  THE  KNIGHT 

AND  LEAPED  FROM  SADDLE  TO  WAR. 

MEN  OF  STEEL  FLICKERED  AND  GLEAMED 

LIKE  RIOT  OF  SILVER  LIGHTS 

AND  THE  GOLD  OF  THE  KNIGHTS  GOOD  BANNER 

STILL  WAVED  ON  A  CASTLE  WALL. 

A  HORSE 

BLOWING,  STAGGERING,  BLOODY  THING 

FORGOTTEN  AT  FOOT  OF  CASTLE  WALL. 

A  HORSE 

DEAD  AT  FOOT  OF  CASTLE  WALL. 


33 


A  GREAT  MISTAKE. 


N  ITALIAN  kept  a  fruit  stand  on  a 
corner  where  he  had  good  aim  at  the 
people  who  came  down  from  the  ele 
vated  station  and  at  those  who  went 
along  two  thronged  streets.  He  sat 
most  of  the  day  in  a  backless  chair  that  was  placed 
strategically. 

There  was  a  babe  living  hard  by,  up  five  flights  of 
stairs,  who  regarded  this  Italian  as  a  tremendous  be 
ing.  The  babe  had  investigated  this  fruit  stand.  It 
had  thrilled  him  as  few  things  he  had  met  with  in  his 
travels  had  thrilled  him.  The  sweets  of  the  world 
laid  there  in  dazzling  rows,  tumbled  in  luxurious 
heaps.  When  he  gazed  at  this  Italian  seated  amid 
such  splendid  treasure,  his  lower  lip  hung  low  and 
his  eyes  raised  to  the  vendor's  face  were  filled  with 
deep  respect,  worship,  as  if  he  saw  omnipotence. 
The  babe  came  often  to  this  corner.  He  hovered 

34 


about  the  stand  and  watched  each  detail  of  the  busi 
ness.  He  was  fascinated  by  the  tranquility  of  the 
vendor,  the  majesty  of  power  and  possession.  At 
times,  he  was  so  engrossed  in  his  contemplation  that 
people,  hurrying,  had  to  use  care  to  avoid  bumping 
him  down. 

He  had  never  ventured  very  near  to  the  stand. 
It  was  his  habit  to  hang  warily  about  the  curb.  Even 
there  he  resembled  a  babe  who  looks  unbidden  at  a 
feast  of  gods. 

One  day,  however,  as  the  baby  was  thus  staring, 
the  vendor  arose  and  going  along  the  front  of  the 
stand,  began  to  polish  oranges  with  a  red  pocket- 
handkerchief.  The  breathless  spectator  moved  across 
the  sidewalk  until  his  small  face  almost  touched  the 
vendor's  sleeve.  His  fingers  were  gripped  in  a  fold 
of  his  dress. 

At  last,  the  Italian  finished  with  the  oranges  and 
returned  to  his  chair.  He  drew  a  newspaper  printed 
in  his  language  from  behind  a  bunch  of  bananas. 
He  settled  himself  in  a  comfortable  position  and  be 
gan  to  glare  savagely  at  the  print.  The  babe  was 
left  face  to  face  with  the  massed  joys  of  the  world. 

For  a  time  he  was  a  simple  worshipper  at  this 
golden  shrine.  Then  tumultuous  desires  began  to 
shake  him.  His  dreams  were  of  conquest.  His  lips 
moved.  Presently  into  his  head  there  came  a  little 
plan. 

He   sidled  nearer,    throwing  swift  and  cunning 

35 


glances  at  the  Italian.  He  strove  to  maintain  his 
conventional  manner,  but  the  whole  plot  was  written 
upon  his  countenance. 

At  last  he  had  come  near  enough  to  touch  the 
fruit.  From  the  tattered  skirt  came  slowly  his  small 
dirty  hand.  His  eyes  were  still  fixed  upon  the  ven 
dor.  His  features  were  set,  save  for  the  under  lip, 
which  had  a  faint  fluttering  movement.  The  hand 
went  forward. 

Elevated  trains  thundered  to  the  station  and  the 
stairway  poured  people  upon  the  sidewalks.  There 
was  a  deep  sea  roar  from  feet  and  wheels  going 
ceaselessly.  None  seemed  to  perceive  the  babe  en 
gaged  in  the  great  venture. 

The  Italian  turned  his  paper.  Sudden  panic  smote 
the  babe.  His  hand  dropped  and  he  gave  vent  to  a 
cry  of  dismay.  He  remained  for  a  moment  staring 
at  the  vendor.  There  was  evidently  a  great  debate 
in  his  mind.  His  infant  intellect  had  defined  the 
Italian.  The  latter  was  undoubtedly  a  man  who 
would  eat  babes  that  provoked  him.  And  the  alarm 
in  him  when  the  vendor  had  turned  his  newspaper 
brought  vividly  before  him  the  consequences  if  he 
were  detected. 

But  at  this  moment,  the  vendor  gave  a  blissful 
grunt  and  tilting  his  chair  against  a  wall,  closed  his 
eyes.  His  paper  dropped  unheeded. 

The  babe  ceased  his  scrutiny  and  again  raised  his 
hand.  It  was  moved  with  supreme  caution  toward 

36 


the  fruit.     The  fingers  were  bent,  claw-like,  in  the 
manner  of  great  heart-shaking  greed. 

Once  he  stopped  and  chattered  convulsively  be 
cause  the  vendor  moved  in  his  sleep.  The  babe  with 
his  eyes  still  upon  the  Italian  again  put  forth  his  hand 
and  the  rapacious  finger  closed  over  a  round  bulb. 

And  it  was  written  that  the  Italian  should  at  this 
moment  open  his  eyes.  He  glared  at  the  babe  a 
fierce  question.  Thereupon  the  babe  thrust  the 
round  bulb  behind  him  and  with  a  face  expressive  of 
the  deepest  guilt,  began  a  wild  but  elaborate  series 
of  gestures  declaring  his  innocence. 

The  Italian  howled.  He  sprang  to  his  feet,  and 
with  three  steps  overtook  the  babe.  He  whirled  him 
fiercely  and  took  from  the  little  fingers  a  lemon. 

STEPHEN  CRANE. 


37 


A  PROLOGUE. 

A  GLOOMY  STAGE.    SLENDER  CURTAINS  AT  A 
WINDOW,  CENTRE.     BEFORE  THE  WINDOW,  A 
TABLE,  AND  UPON  THE  TABLE,  A  LARGE  BOOK, 
OPENED.   A  MOONBEAM,  NO  WIDER  THAN  A  SWORD- 
BLADE,  PIERCES  THE  CURTAINS  AND  FALLS  UPON 
THE  BOOK. 

A  MOMENT  OF  SILENCE. 

FROM  WITHOUT,  THEN— AN  ADJACENT  ROOM  IN 
INTENTION— COME  SOUNDS  OF  CELEBRATION,  OF 
RIOTOUS  DRINKING  AND  LAUGHTER.     FINALLY,  A 
SWIFT  QUARREL.    THE  DIN  AND  CRASH  OF  A 
FIGHT.     A  LITTLE  STILLNESS.    THEN  A  WOMAN'S 
SCREAM.     "  AH,  MY  SON,  MY  SON." 

A  MOMENT  OF  SILENCE. 

CURTAIN. 

STEPHEN  CRANE. 


SOME  HISTORICAL  DOCUMENTS. 

There  has  been  an  entertaining  aftermath  of  the 
dinner  which  the  Society  of  the  Philistines  gave  to 
Mr.  Stephen  Crane,  who  wears  a  red  badge  for  his 
black  riding.  It  consists  of  a  pamphlet  containing 
the  words  of  regret  sent  to  the  committee  in  charge 
by  distinguished  workers  in  the  literary  vineyard.  It 
is  evident  that  many  prominent  gentlemen  who 
would  have  enjoyed  grasping  Mr.  Crane  by  the  hand 
did  not  find  it  quite  so  easy  to  make  a  little  journey 
to  East  Aurora,  N.  Y.,  as  Mr.  Elbert  Hubbard  has 
found  it.  Mr.  Bok  could  not  find  the  town,  Bliss 
Carman  says  it  is  not  in  his  railroad  guide,  and  Phil 
istines  from  San  Francisco  found  it  impossible  to 
make  train  connections.  But  they  all  joined  in  the 
spirit  of  the  festival,  and  all  toasted  the  hanging  of 
the  Crane. 

Even  in  these  notes  of  regret  we  can  see  a  great 
diversity  of  opinion  in  regard  to  Mr.  Crane's  contri 
butions  to  our  literature.  It  is  a  delicate  task  to  say 
in  a  letter  answering  an  invitation  to  dinner  that  you 
do  not  understand  what  the  author  in  whose  honor 
it  is  to  be  given  means  by  his  work.  But  some  brave 
men  did  this  brave  thing.  Charles  Dudley  Warner 
simply  wished  the  inner  man  a  good  time ;  Maurice 
Thompson  said  Crane  was  a  fiendish  warrior  who 

39 


made  his  gooseflesh  wiggle;  Miss  Louise  Imogen 
Guiney  knew  she  was  missing  a  "  good  thing ;  "  Rich 
ard  Harding  Davis  avoided  criticising  the  poet  in 
question  by  wagering  it  would  be  a  better  dinner 
than  he  had  eaten  at  Creede;  Hamlin  Garland 
vouched  for  his  taking  "  a  very  special  interest  in 
Mr.  Crane ;  "  Mr.  Howells  was  glad  his  prophecies 
were  being  realized,  and  that  one  man  is  receiving 
recognition  at  a  time  in  life  when  he  can  most  enjoy 
it,  recognition  in  this  instance  being  food,  varied 
with  Sauterne,  St.  Julian  and  Irroy ;  and  other  authors 
replied  in  a  similar  strain. 

On  the  other  hand,  a  genius  from  Albany  wrote  : 
"  I  have  a  profound  admiration  for  a  man  who,  cast 
ing  to  the  winds  rhyme,  reason  and  metre,  can  still 
write  poetry."  A  Boston  educator  said  :  "  I  dote 
on  Stephen  Crane,  although  I  don't  understand  his 
lines  a  bit."  But  more  pat  than  any  other  message 
was  that  sent  to  East  Aurora  by  a  New  York  news 
paper  man,  who  said  he  did  not  understand  Crane's 
poetry,  nor  did  he  understand  the  monolith  in  Cen 
tral  Park,  although  he  had  learned  from  good  author 
ity  that  "  it  conveys  valuable  information,  expressed 
in  chaste  and  beautiful  language." — The  Boston 
Journal. 


To  the  younger  generation  of  book  lovers  a  great 
deal  of  interest  and  not  a  little  curiosity  have  lately 
been  excited  by  the  achievements  of  that  new  stellar 
light  in  the  twinkling  dome  of  American  letters,  Mr. 
Stephen  Crane.  Their  introduction  to  him  has  been 
recent.  Some  poetry  that,  while  violating  with 
serene  self-confidence  well-nigh  all  the  traditions  and 
conventions  of  versification,  nevertheless  spoke  forth 

40 


a  virile  message,  deep  in  its  philosophy,  daring  in  its 
imagery  and  unmistakable  in  the  subtle  play  of  its 
writer's  genius ;  this  and  a  strange  performance  in 
prose  comprise  about  all  that  the  majority  of  ordi 
narily  informed  readers  yet  know  concerning  Stephen 
Crane.  To  be  sure,  some  of  them  have  heard,  in  a 
faint  way,  that  he  is  a  young  author  whose  future  is 
brilliant  with  high  promise.  Mr.  Howells  has  said 
as  much.  Mr.  E.  J.  Edwards,  the  reviewer  and  cor 
respondent,  has  frequently  reiterated  the  statement ; 
and  in  New  York,  within  the  partly  coincident  cir 
cles  of  journalism  and  letters,  several  persons  of 
equal  or  less  renown  have  undertaken  in  a  modest 
way  to  act  as  Mentors  to  the  young  genius  and  to  aid 
in  "  bringing  him  out."  But  to  the  mass,  he  is 
known,  if  at  all,  only  as  the  author  of  The  Black 
Riders  in  verse,  and  of  the  Rfd  Badge  of  Courage  in 
prose ;  efforts,  both,  that  challenge  study  and  baffle 
understanding  rather  than  soothe  superficiality  or 
pander  to  the  wishes  of  mental  indolence. 

In  these  two  works,  and  especially  in  the  prose 
one,  there  existed  a  quality  which,  among  the  curi 
ous,  courted  investigation.  To  those  who  knew  that 
these  strong,  strange  writings,  these  bold  Teachings 
into  the  depths  of  nature  and  of  truth,  were  the 
achievements  of  a  boy  scarcely  beyond  his  majority 
— of  a  lad  who  at  1 7  had  placed  pen  upon  paper 
with  the  confidence  and  in  some  degree  with  the 
warrant  of  well-seasoned  maturity — they  amounted 
to  a  piquant  challenge.  Some  there  were  who  felt  it 
a  duty  to  extend  the  hand  of  fraternal  recognition ; 
and  a  pleasure  to  make  of  this  duty  a  chance  for 
personal  scrutiny  and  for  study  at  short  range.  No 
doubt  it  was  this  motive  which  inspired  the  Society 
of  the  Philistines,  an  organization  of  bright  news- 


paper  and  literary  workers  which  has  its  axis  about 
East  Aurora,  N.  Y.,  the  home  of  The  Philistine 
magazine,  to  scheme  the  emprise  of  a  dinner  to  Mr. 
Crane,  the  consummation  of  which  was  pleasantly 
commemorated.  The  dinner  itself  was  an  exquisite 
effect  in  artistic  gustatation ;  but  it  was  chiefly  not 
able  as  an  incident  in  the  early  career  of  a  possible 
immortal,  and  perchance  as  a  refutation  of  the  dic 
tum  that  no  good  thing  can  come  out  of  Judea. 
There  were  present  at  it  representative  bright  minds 
in  letters,  in  journalism,  in  medicine,  in  the  law,  in 
architecture,  and  in  the  art  which  speaks  through 
colors,  not  to  mention  a  liberal  sprinkling  of  men 
who  practice  the  less  ethereal  art  of  practical  busi 
ness  ;  and  these  men,  one  and  all,  extolled  what  Mr. 
Crane  had  done,  urged  that  he  remain  true  to  the 
best  instincts  within  him,  and  pleaded  for  room  and 
recognition  for  the  newer  generation  of  writers  who 
aim  to  speak  a  true  thought  in  a  way  not  cramped 
by  the  archaic  conventions. 

In  this  personal  age,  to  speak  of  an  achievement 
inevitably  incurs  the  complementary  duty  of  exploit 
ing  a  personality.  There  is.  little  to  be  said  of  Stephen 
Crane,  the  individual,  further  than  that  he  is  a  youth 
ful-looking,  modest  person,  with  a  face  that  suggests 
at  once  strong  mentality  and  supersensitive  nerves ; 
and  with  a  manner  that  shows  no  signs  of  spoiling. 
He  is  now  24  years  of  age,  although  he  looks  a  year 
or  two  older.  The  Red  Badge  of  Courage  was  begun 
ere  he  was  18  and  finished  before  its  author  had  be 
come  a  voter.  An  oracular  English  reviewer  of  it 
the  other  day,  in  a  pretentious  Anglican  quarterly, 
expatiated  at  some  length  upon  the  book's  internal 
evidence  that  the  writer  of  it  had  expressed  his  own 
emotions  as  a  soldier  bearing  arms ;  whereas,  Mr. 

42 


Crane  had  probably  never  smelled  even  the  gun 
powder  of  sham  battle  prior  to  the  book's  accept 
ance  by  the  Appleton's.  Mr.  Crane  has  been  at  in 
tervals  in  active  newspaper  harness.  He  is  one  of 
the  craft,  and  is  thoroughly  one  with  it  in  its  sympa 
thies  and  ideals. 

Although  the  temptation  is  before  him  to  work  fast 
and  carelessly,  in  order  that  the  financial  crop  of  his 
popularity  may  be  harvested  at  its  seeming  ripeness, 
he  refuses  to  pot-boil ;  and  firm  friends  are  sustain 
ing  him  in  it.  The  Red  Badge  of  Courage  has  fas 
cinated  England.  The  critics  are  wild  over  it,  and 
the  English  edition  has  been  purchased  with  avidity. 
Mr.  Crane  has  letters  from  the  most  prominent  of 
English  publishers  asking  for  the  English  rights  to  all 
of  his  future  productions ;  but  the  young  author  re 
fuses  to  be  hurried.  "  I  write  what  is  in  me,"  he 
said,  at  the  Square  Meal,  "  and  it  will  be  enough  to 
follow  with  obedience  the  promptness  of  that  inspir 
ation  if  it  be  worthy  of  so  dignified  a  name." —  Liv 
S.  Richard  in  the  Scranton  Tribune. 


The  Philistine  dinner  in  honor  of  Stephen  Crane 
was  no  joke  after  all.  It  was  given  on  December 
I9th,  although  East  Aurora  is  to  be  found  nowhere  in 
the  railway  guide.  Thirty-one  Philistines  of  the 
sterner  sex  sat  'round  the  festal  board.  Miss  Louise 
Imogen  Guiney  could  not  come,  hence  her  regrets, 
printed  on  the  menu  : 

Eyeless  in  Gaza,  at  the  mill  with  slaves, 
Herself  in  bonds,  (not)  under  Philistian  yoke. 

It  was  a  regular  Clover  Club  affair,  and  many  be 
gan  asking,  "Who  is  Stephen  Crane?  "  while  others 
present  echoed  the  sentiment  of  A.  E.  Winship,  who 

43 


was  unavoidably  absent,  "  I  dote  on  Stephen  Crane, 
although  I  don't  understand  his  lines  a  bit."  Dwight 
R.  Collin's  design  for  the  menu  represented  the 
Black  Riders  and  the  man  chasing  the  horizon.  In 
the  same  spirit  several  sent  regrets.  Maurice  Thomp 
son  said  it  would  have  given  him  "  great  pleasure  to 
sit  over  against  Stephen  Crane  for  an  eating  bout. 
Lately  he  made  the  goose-flesh  wiggle  on  me — he  is 
a  fiendish  warrior."  Charles  F.  Lurnmis  was  sorry 
that  he  could  not  "  assist  at  the  Hanging  of  the 
Crane."  W.  D.  Ho  wells  was  very  glad  to  know  that 
his  "  prophecies  were  being  realized."  Robert  W. 
Ciiswell  did  not  "  understand  Crane's  poetry,  nor  do 
I  understand  the  inscription  on  the  monolith  in  Cen 
tral  Park."  George  F.  Warren  said  that  "  as  a  poet 
Stephen  Crane  is  a  cracker-jack." 

Several  of  those  who  did  accept,  with  the  under 
standing  that  they  need  not  "talk"  to  the  Philistines, 
were  assured  that  they  would  be  ready  to  talk  after 
the  fourth  course.  And  so  it  was ;  everybody  talked. 
But  first  Elbert  Hubbard,  in  a  very  neat  and  humor 
ous  speech,  made  the  address  of  welcome,  explained 
the  modern  meaning  of  the  word  "  Philistine,"  and 
likewise  the  object  and  purpose  of  the  society.  The 
Philistines  had  always  had  a  hard  time  since  first 
driven  out  of  their  country  by  a  tribe  of  invaders 
who  had  been  slaves  in  Egypt,  and  "  had  the  pull 
with  the  publishers."  His  vindication  of  the  apos 
tles  of  sincerity  and  personal  independence  was 
convincing  and  conclusive,  and  he  closed  with  an 
eloquent  tribute  to  the  "  strong  voice  now  heard  in 
America,  the  voice  of  Stephen  Crane."  The  Master 
of  Ceremonies  here  winked  slyly  at  the  guest  of 
honor  at  his  right,  and  the  spare,  pale-faced  young 
man,  who  may  be  twenty-five  or  under,  and  whose 

44 


appearance  recalled  Henley's  line, 

"Thin-legged,  thin-chested,  slight  unspeakably," 

found  his  feet  and  modestly  acknowledged  the  tribute 
paid  him  by  the  society.  He  said  he  was  trying  to 
do  what  he  could  "  since  he  had  recovered  from  col 
lege,"  sincerely,  though  clumsily,  perhaps,  to  set 
forth  his  impressions.  The  machinery  given  him 
might  be  defective,  but,  such  as  it  was,  it  seemed 
his  duty  to  work  it  for  what  it  was  worth.  Mr. 
Crane's  speech  would  read  something  like  one  of  his 
poems,  and  all  the  time  he  was  delivering  it  one  was 
thinking  of  the  words  Edward  FitzGerald  asked 
should  be  inscribed  on  his  tomb : 

"  It  is  He  that  hath  made  us,  and  not  we  ourselves." 

The  toast  master  said  that  the  author  having  un 
folded  his  plan  of  work,  it  was  now  the  typefounder's 
turn,  but  the  story  of  this  speaker  was  so  full  of  typo 
graphical  errors  that  the  Philistines  rung  him  down 
and  called  for  the  paper-maker.  This  was  a  sort  of 
machine-made  affair  with  deckle  edges  and  no  gilt 
on,  and  in  due  time  the  publisher  was  asked  to  tell 
what  he  had  to  say  to  the  Philistines  that  might  be 
new  and  interesting  about  book-making.  But  the 
publisher  had  done  little  else  during  his  six  months 
of  business  experience  than  to  read  Little  Journeys, 
The  Philistine,  and  rejected  manuscripts.  He  was 
assured  there  was  some  phosphorous  in  his  speech, 
but  as  the  diners  had  passed  the  fourth  course  he 
thought  the  sparkle  was  all  in  the  champagne.  A  re 
viewer,  the  editor  of  Brains,  Willis  Hawkins,  fol 
lowed,  but  he  was  not  allowed  to  finish  his  story. 
The  censor  of  the  occasion,  Claude  F.  Bragdon,  told 
how  the  Philistines  were  trying  in  art  to  stimulate 
and  cultivate  sincerity  of  expression,  and  with  a  keen 

45 


sense  of  humor  depicted  the  serious  pretensions  of 
some  of  the  old  masters  and  their  worshipers.  There 
were  many  other  informal  addresses,  interlarded  with 
"  asides "  from  the  wits,  and  much  drinking  of 
healths  and  successes,  which  extended  well  into  the 
night,  when  the  diners  lapsed  into  solemnity  long 
enough  to  enable  the  toast  master  to  propose  ad 
journment  with  a  toast  to  "  the  first  of  American 
newspaper-iren  " — Charles  Anderson  Dana.  It  was 
a  large  and  happy  time  and  will  long  be  remembered 
by  those  present. —  W.  Irving  Way  in  Chicago  Post. 


46 


A  nOUNTAIN  WOMAN.  BY  ELIA  W.  PEAT- 
TIE.  With  cover  design  by  Mr.  Bruce  Rogers. 
i6mo,  cloth,  gilt  top,  $1.25. 

The  author  of  "  A  Mountain  Woman  "  is  an  edi 
torial  writer  on  the  Omaha  World-Herald^  and  is 
widely  known  in  the  Middle  West  as  a  writer  of  a 
number  of  tales  of  Western  life  that  are  characterized 
by  much  finish  and  charm. 

THE  LAMP  OF  GOLD.  BY  FLORENCE  L. 
SNOW,  President  of  the  Kansas  Academy  of  Lan 
guage  and  Literature.  Printed  at  the  De  Vinne 
Press  on  French  hand-made  paper.  With  title- 
page  and  cover  designs  by  Mr.  Edmund  H.  Gar- 
rett.  i6mo,  cloth,  gilt  top,  $1.25. 
PURCELL  ODE  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  BY 
ROBERT  BRIDGES.  i6mo,  cloth,  gilt  top,  $1.25 
net. 

Two  hundred  copies  printed  on  Van  Gelder  hand 
made  paper  for  sale  in  America. 
HAND  AND  SOUL.    BY  DANTE  GABRIEL  Ros- 
SETTI.     Printed  by  Mr.    William  Morris  at   the 
Kelmscott  Press. 

This  book  is  printed  in  the  "Golden"  type,  with 
a  specially  designed  title-page  and  border,  and  in 
special  binding.  "  Hand  and  Soul  "  first  appeared 
in  "The  Germ,"  the  short-lived  magazine  of  the 
Pre-Raphaelite  Brotherhood.  A  few  copies  remain 
for  sale  at  $3.50.  Vellum  copies  all  sold. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers^  or  mailed  postpaid  by  the 
pttblishersy  on  receipt  of  price. 

WAY  &  WILLIAMS, 

Monadnock  Block.  Chicago. 


47 


"  Would  to  God  my  name  were  not  so  terrible  to 
the  enemy  as  it  is." — 

HENRY  IV. 

PHILISTINE: 
Periodical  for  Curi- 
lous  Persons.    Printed 
lEvery  Little  While  for 
Society   of    The 

Mistines  and  Pub 
lished  by  Them  Monthly.  Sub 
scription,  One  Dollar  Yearly.  Sin 
gle  Copies,  JO  Cents.  Payable  to 
the  Bursar. 

"  //  is  very  handsome  and  very  sassy." 

BOSTON  HERALD. 
"//  is  deliciously  impudent." 

ROCHESTER  HERALD. 
'*  //  offers  a  most  promising  sign." 

NEW  YORK  TRIBUNE. 
**  It  gave  me  a  purple  moment." 

THE  CHAP-BOOK. 

The  Philistine  is  calculated  to  lay 
the  dust  of  convention  and  drive  out 
the  miasma  of  degeneracy,  and  while 
assailing  the  old  gods  may,  in  good 
time,  rear  new  ones  to  the  delight  of 
the  healthy  populace. 

THE  PHILISTINE, 

East  Aurora, 

New  York. 


48 


I  HE  ROYCROFT«MMwi 
PRINTING  SHOP 
at  this  time  desires  to 
announce  a  sister  book 
to  the  Song  of  Songs  : 
which  is  Solomon's, 
lit  is  the  Journal  of 
Koheleth :  being  a  Reprint  of  the 
Book  of  Ecclesiastes  with  an  Essay 
by  Mr.  Elbert  Hubbard.  The  same 
Romanesque  types  are  used  that 
served  so  faithfully  and  well  in  the 
Songs,  but  the  initials,  colophon  and 
rubricated  borders  are  special  de 
signs.  After  seven  hundred  and 
twelve  copies  are  printed  the  types 
will  be  distributed  and  the  title  page, 
colophon  and  borders  destroyed. 

IN  PREPARATION  of  the   text   Mr.  Hub- 
bard  has   had  the    scholarly   assistance  of 
his   friend,   Dr.   Frederic    W.   Sanders,   of 
Columbia  University.     The   worthy  pressman 
has  also  been  helpfully  counseled  by  several 
Eminent  Bibliophiles. 

Bound  in  buckram  and  a»ntique  boards. 
The  seven  hundred  copies  that  are.  printed 
on  Holland  hand-made  paper  are  offered  at 
two.  dollars  each,  but  the  twelve  copies  on 
Japan  Veflum  at  five  dollars  are  all  sold. 
Every  book  will  be  numbered  and  signed  by 
Mr.  Hubbard. 

The  Roycroft  Printing  Shop, 
East  Aurora,  N.  Y. 


fE  MAKE  a  specialty  of 
JDekel  Edge  Papers  and 
.carry  the  largest  stock 
d  best  variety  in  the 
country.  Fine  Hand-made  Papers 
in  great  variety*  Exclusive  West 
ern  Agents  for  L.  L.  Brown  Paper 
Company's  Hand-mades* 

GEO.  H.  TAYLOR  &  CO., 

207-209  Monroe  Street, 

Chicago,  111. 


\-T-T 


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N0V15  1954 


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p    APR  1 2  te5G 

21  No'58W  J 
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JUN3    1959 


^- 


21-100m.l,'54(I887sl6)476 


E    UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA          LIBRARY   OF   THE    UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIF 


a  *  6 


E    UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA 


6 


LIBRARY    OF   THE    UNIVERSITY   OF   CALII 


